


Contact High

by unluckywords



Category: Tyranny (Video Game)
Genre: Magic bonds, Other, Weird Sex, here in these 3k words of two idiots trying to fuck through sheet metal, irresponsible magic use, we’ve got it all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 01:03:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17798135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unluckywords/pseuds/unluckywords
Summary: Barik is still a man under that armor, and they don’t see why he can’t be treated like one.





	Contact High

Even well into the night, Lethian’s Crossing is bustling with activity. 

 

The tavern swells with music and voices, drawing the companions of the Fatebinder inside as they handle their transactions with Eldian. Though it takes only a short while, upon their return, the party appears to be short one. 

 

“Where’s Barik?” Island slips into the conversation with the same ease they do most things.

 

“Outside,” Verse says with the incredulous tone of someone asked who Kyros is. “You think people around here let him  _ in _ places?” 

 

“For fuck’s sake—“ The flash of anger in their expression is startling; nothing even approaching its intensity had surfaced on their face before. Maybe it’s the annoyance after a week on the road, maybe it’s seeing Barik thrown to the side  _ again  _ that makes their blood boil. Either way, they swipe two bottles off the table by the neck and turn on their heel for the door. The others can deal with payment. 

 

Barik is easily located, as he always is: if not by sight, by smell. The man stands a ways from the door, half in the shadows of the alley opposite the tavern. Arms folded over his chest and in only the most minimal light, he could easily be taken for a statue. He stares off into the distance. 

 

Island whistles for his attention as they slow their pace a few feet off from him, in easy view. He had once mentioned finding it grating, being unable to look at the person speaking to him.

 

“Fatebinder,” he greets. “Is there an issue?” 

 

They shake their head, quickly noting that he likely would not be able to get the mouth of the bottle under his helmet. 

 

“No, I simply…” Why had they come out? If he wasn’t allowed to come in, that was that. They can’t jeopardize their ability to stay in Lethian’s Crossing. “I thought you might be better off with some company.” 

 

He laughs. It’s a very human sound, coming from someone who is most often seen otherwise. 

 

“And do what?” They shrug, bottles clinking noisily. 

 

“Talk? Take a walk?” They gesture to the path that trails through the city and into the thin forests surrounding the city. “Anything more interesting than hanging about in the shadows while your companions drink inside?” He gestures in what they take to be concession. 

 

“Lead on, then.” 

 

Their wandering takes them to a part of the forest Island recalls from their time as Governor. A hunting path, no longer rife with game as it once was but not yet disused. Safe and quiet.

 

They walk in companionable silence for a while, Island frantically trying to think of something to justify the excursion. 

 

“Did you take two bottles to drink yourself?” Barik’s question catches them off guard, eliciting a quiet, embarrassed laugh. 

 

“No, I just… I didn’t think about if you could actually drink from a bottle or not, before I stormed out here.” They offer it to him, taking a resigned swig of their own. They make a point not to watch him shove the neck up through the mouth hole of his armor. Island, still searching for distraction, is struck by the breeze that passes the trees. 

 

“Barik,” they ask. “Do you get cold in your armor?” He hums and makes a move like was going to wipe his mouth, though it’s stifled as quickly as they can note it.

 

“When it’s cold.” Despite his flippant response, they begin to worry as they often do around him. Surely, he would get sick being left to sleep outside for so long. The worry wells up on their tongue, and cannot be swallowed back down with the ale.

 

“I just worry about you, is all,” they admit. “You aren’t treated particularly well by anyone on our team, and that’s on top of your whole…  _ circumstance. _ ”

 

There is a long pause, a discordant screech of metal, and then Barik laughs. 

 

The sound takes them by such surprise that it throws them into hysterics as well. Soon they’re forced to a crouch to stay upright, rubbing at their eyes as mirthful tears threaten to well. 

 

“Good Binder,” he laughs. “I am the last person you need worry about. I am a soldier, and more than that I am a Stone Shield of Graven Ashe. This campaign, with you, is nothing I cannot handle.” He offers them a hand up, which they take gratefully. 

 

“Alright, alright, maybe I was making up an issue that wasn’t there.” He hums and takes another drink. 

 

“There is nothing to be done about either, at any rate. I must harden myself to them.” Island shoots him a look they know he can’t see. 

 

“Must you?” He shrugs. 

 

“Maybe. Most, if not all, lack a solution. My armor prevents me from taking part in most pleasure of life, and I doubt there is any chance in getting the beast or Lady Sirin to leave me be.”  _ Or Eb,  _ they think.  _ Or Verse.  _

 

“I’m sure you could find some pleasure, in something. Someone.” Another laugh, though this one feels… nervous. He even fidgets with his bottle in an uncharacteristic show of unsettlement. 

 

“I doubt that. I have tried… a great deal, in the pursuit of such things.” They nod, but pursue the thought despite it. 

 

“I mean, Barik, you have some pretty interesting abilities in your repertoire. If you can feel another person’s pain and bear it for them, why not someone else’s pleasure? It’s the same thing.” Though he had already begun to object, the second sentence makes his words splutter and fail for a moment. 

 

“I do not believe I have the capacity to do that myself,” he explains once his composure has rebuilt itself behind his mask. “Nor would I wish to do something so intimate with anyone I do not trust.” Island makes a small ‘ _ ah’  _ sound and flushes around the edges, sipping from their ale to save themselves the fumbling. They hope they’ve not been making him uncomfortable. He is already, by default, and they have no wish to make it worse. They take a moment to cobble together an explanation, rushed by his gaze on them. 

 

“To get to the heart of it, is this your very polite way of telling me you aren’t interested in my offer, or have you not picked up that I’m offering?” There’s a harsh grinding sound, followed by a deafening silence. Island chooses not to comment, in case that wasn’t… voluntary.  “Of course, I don’t mean to be persistent. It was only because you mentioned your… dissatisfaction, that I even voice the thought.” Barik is still and quiet for a long time, and the night is too dark for them to tell through the visor if he’s looking at them.

 

“I didn’t intend to put you up to anything,” he says eventually, just loud enough to be heard. He hesitates again, then speaks more clearly. “I apologize, if I had made you think that I was making any request of you at the Spire.” Island shakes their head, but he continues before they can get a word in edgewise. “I ought to have not been so free with that information in the first place, with a superior. Again, you have my apologies, Fatebinder.” With that he turns to leave, and Island is so stunned by the degree to which he misconstrued their words that they nearly let him disappear past the bend of the footpath.

 

“Barik!” They shout and run after him, lowering their voice into the one they use to soothe scared children in court as they catch up to him, pressing their hand to his chest. “How did you get me thinking you’d been improper from me saying I was willing to help you get off?” 

 

“It  _ is _ improper, what I said.” His voice is almost comically tense. They have to swallow a laugh.

 

“So is what I said,” they counter, then shrug. “I’m a fatebinder, anyways. We don’t exactly follow rank and file. You’re in no danger, not from saying yes  _ or _ saying no.” He is silent another long while. 

 

“You think you can circumvent all of… this?” He raps demonstratively in his chest. Island can’t help but grin. 

 

“Yes, I do.” He nods thoughtfully. 

 

“In that case, I would be interested in pursuing this solution.” Satisfied, Island pulls their palm from his chest and steps from the path. 

 

“I’ll work something up, so that we can try next time we have a break.” 

 

Clearly still in a strange territory, Barik offers them a curt salute and paces off. They hold back a laugh until he’s out of sight and earshot. Slipping back to the inn, no longer confined to the path, they rub carefully at the red mark in their palm from where the armor pressed and think over how exactly they’ll make good on their offer.

 

-

 

Three weeks and one visit to Lethian’s Crossing later, the scene is set. Candles bathe the room in dim gold light while the smoking incense send plumes of fragrant smoke curling into the air; both making the small space far more comfortable to inhabit.

 

They wonder if they look a bit too wanton. Their tunic is untied at the neck and hanging open, all the way down to their stomach and scarcely hiding anything from view. Even if it wasn’t, they’re sure he could still see where their nipples press against the fabric, underclothes long since discarded. 

 

Island hears Barik approaching long before his shadow appears at the doorway, and discards their own worries. He stands still, body language broadcasting his uncertainty. 

 

“You’re ready?” He dips his head after a moment, but does not move. They gesture for him to come closer, smiling just enough that they hope it will be encouraging. 

 

“Yes, Fatebinder.” They sigh. 

 

“No titles, please.” He nods, ducking inside and approaching the cot they perch on. He closes the door behind him, careful not to make too much noise, and the latch falls shut with an impossibly loud  _ click.  _

 

“Island, then.” They hum, satisfied, and watch as he comes to kneel before them. They hesitate to put a hand on him, as they might with any other lover, and decide instead to move things along another way. 

 

“You’re sure you’re fine with abusing your ability for this?” He nods, certainly more eager than before. It gives them a rush to see him— nearly seven feet of iron and muscle— kneeling for them. “How do you… cast it?” He shakes his head. They hum, mulling it over in their head before carefully making the sigil of emotion in the air, pink glow bathing both of them. If they open a channel between them, he may be able to bridge the gap.

 

They offer him their hand, and when he takes it both are struck with the sensation of both having contact with, and being in another person’s body. Island worries about the apprehension they feel that they did not a moment ago, but swallows it down quickly. 

 

“Barik?” He makes a small noise that would be difficult to interpret in any sense besides arousal. 

 

“Ah, so it worked.” Another nod. They would have to try and get him to participate at least a little more by night’s end. “You’re feeling what I feel, then?” A pleasant heat in their veins, the curl of excitement in their stomach. They hope he can. He deserves to feel something nice. The weight of his armor lays phantom on their skin, just present enough to be noticed. 

 

“How are you going to—?” Their gesture for him to move silences him, and shifts him back just enough to allow them to slide off the cot. It makes a terrible racket and takes far longer than it should, but they can’t be displeased when he's done as they asked so obediently. 

 

“I thought you could watch me,” they say, with the confidence of someone attempting a much better idea. “If that’s alright with you.”  

 

“Let me watch you…” He finds his tongue in a matter of seconds but still struggles to make it work. 

 

“Get off,” they clarify. “If you wanted to.” He nods, for once unaware of the exaggeration of the gesture his armor creates. They flush and laugh softly, swallowing down the rush of affection they feel. 

 

Barik moves his arms to allow them the space. They tug the blanket from their bed and toss it over his legs, then carefully undo the ties on their pants, slipping them down their legs and tossing the article aside before kneeling between his legs. The metal on his stomach and chest are not so rough hewn as that around his shoulders, and for that they are grateful, anticipating their contact with it. With him. Despite the barrier, they can feel him breathe and shift minutely behind them as they settle into a comfortable position on his leg. 

 

“When I said watch, I didn’t mean that you can’t participate,” they add, almost shyly. “I just know that might be a little difficult.” On reflex he reaches out, a little habit not yet culled by his curse. They offer their hand anyways, and he carefully takes it in both great, gauntleted hands. The effect would be comical were it not so saddening. Something so clean and soft looking wrapped up in jagged metal, a rabbit in a trap. 

 

They carefully turn their palm anyways, slipping their fingers between his. They then guide both down to sit at their hip. 

 

Even knowing it’s there, they jump when his hand slips under their shirt, cold, cold metal pressing against the bare skin on their back. 

 

“Apologies, I—“ he stops short, suddenly aware that the others would hear him if he kept to the volume he usually does. Island leans back a bit to speak to him. 

 

“You’re fine, hush.” To emphasize the point, they cover his hand with theirs and give it a pat. “Just try and be natural about it.” As if in response, he draws his fingers just slightly across the skin, the gentleness of the gesture making up for the cold rigidity of the hand doing it. As they draw their attention from him, their hand slips between their legs. They’re still slick from earlier, when the boredom of waiting spurred them to act early. 

 

“I had been thinking, before you got here,” they say, casually, as if they weren’t circling their clit with the hand that didn’t brace them against him. “About you.” He tenses, they hear his breath catch, and then he carefully places his other hand on their thigh. A jolt of arousal comes with the realization of just how large he is compared to them. His hand all but covers their thigh, and they know if he wasn’t stuck he could be putting it to better use. 

 

They aren’t sure how much of it is his, and how much their own, but it feels  _ wonderful.  _ An all encompassing kind of warmth that leaves them with the impression of having drunk more than their fill. 

 

Island stays in place there for a time, straddling his hip and leaning against him as they work themselves towards climax, when an idea strikes them.

 

“I—“ their voice catches. “Hang on a moment.” They move quickly to retrieve a pillow from their bed, knees nearly buckling as they feel a terrible pang of loss.  _ Oh,  _ they think, almost breathless as they set the pillow where they had been sitting,  _ he had been very close.  _ They should have anticipated that, he’s been stuck for more than a year, with no contact of any kind, much less like this.

 

“Sorry about that.” They pat his arm as it wraps around them again and holds them close. 

 

With the pillow as an added barrier between themself and the metal beneath them, they no longer need to hold themselves up. Instead, they can press their hips fully down and pick up a more comfortable rhythm. It’s almost shameful how easy it is for them to show off like this. 

 

Barik’s head tips back with a sigh as the bond conveys all of this to him, in considerably fewer words.

 

“Good, good,” he breathes, voice rough and low in another moment of rare unselfconsciousness. Island lets out a small, embarrassed laugh as they keep their pace rutting against his leg. They know there’s no hiding themselves, but they find comfort in letting their head fall against his shoulder. Their fingers struggle for purchase against a smooth portion of his armor, but a steady hand placed at the small of their back keeps them in place.

 

Maybe it’s the bond that makes them bold, the way it doubles up their sensations, or the fact that it’s Barik with them, but Island decides to swap to a rockier path. They slow for a moment, leaning against him for support as they press two fingers inside, then a third when it becomes readily apparent they can accept it. 

 

Barik  _ shudders _ as they sit back down, and resume their earlier pace. It draws a breathless little laugh from Island. 

 

“Alright, Barikonen?” He nods, and from the way his hand relaxes at their spine they know it to be true.

 

It doesn’t take much after that, for things to rush to and end. 

 

Barik hardly makes a sound when he comes, though the way his armor squeaks and grinds together with his sudden tensing would have covered the sound either way. Island notes with a degree of delight that he’s grabbed them quite roughly around the middle, but cannot do anything about it. His head is swimming, a mix of Island’s overpowering magic and his own, almost unfamiliar, pleasure leaving him dazed. Even secondhand, it’s overpowering. Island leans into the gesture, pressing themselves against him despite the knowledge that he cannot feel it. They can feel it in full, however, the metal pleasantly cold again their feverish skin. 

 

They chase their climax, rolling their hips down roughly, while Barik’s fingers dig into the soft flesh at their hip. He holds them close as they finish, a short whimper against his shoulder just a few seconds later as their movements slow to a halt.

 

Seconds roll by accompanied only by their labored breaths, and he relinquishes his grip on their hip. The space under his fingers is marked in red, sure to bruise with time. They feel a pang of guilt run through him, for marring them in his brief lapse of control. 

 

Island sighs contentedly regardless, and stretches until their joints pop. They slip down a bit on his leg to look him over, as if they could glean anything from outside the armor. On his end, it is quite the sight. His superior, tamer of the Blade Grave and ruler of the Mountain spire, spread out on his lap, shirt hanging around their shoulders low enough for him to—

 

“You’re alright?” He nods, confused and distracted in equal measure. “You grabbed me rather hard, at the end there. I was worried I’d hurt you somehow, with the spell.” He shakes his head. They watch him another moment. He cannot judge what their expression, dark and curious, concerned and sly, means.

 

Then they stand. Sitting, he’s level with their hips, and he’s almost ashamed of the speed with which his mind provided the next direction this encounter could go. Were it possible, they would have certainly indulged the thought, though they opt not to tell him as much.

 

They offer a hand to help him up as he reminds himself the situation he’s in, despite the fact that the effort required to do lift him an inch would dislocate every bone in their arm. He ignores the offer and rises on his own. He tries to find the words, not to say thank them as if they’d done him a service, but to  _ thank them _ , for seeing him as human despite all evidence to the contrary. He struggles. 

 

They laugh, sitting back on the bed and wrapping the remaining blanket around themselves to ward off the cold he’d hardly felt. His heart skips a beat when they grace him with a smile, drowsy and warm. 

 

“You’re welcome, Barik.” There is a moment of surprise through the bond, then the recognition of why they were able guess his words. “This was… strange, but fun.” 

 

“I will leave you be now, Fatebinder, but…” They watch him expectantly. “Thank you, again.” He slips from their room with surprising silence. 

 

Separate, the force of the bond is not nearly so overwhelming, but still they both feel the lingering warmth of the other, well into the night. 


End file.
